Lancelot's Story
by Infragilis Dea
Summary: She saves his life and in that moment he tries to deny the love but it can't be denied. He will love her forever. But thought he knows it not, another shares his feelings and will fight even his best friend to win her away. LancelotxOC Please r
1. chapter 1

Ok this is it, my story, the big one! It's Lancelot's version of the events of the movie. It follows the basic plot line of the movie but I have added in a bunch of my own ideas. There are a lot of new scences and things that I wrote into my story that didn't happen in the movie. So that's it. Read, enjoy, review and I'll be happy. Thanks and remember that this is my firsttry at writing something good.

Chapter 1

As Lancelot sat atop that hill and watched the carriage approach, the carriage baring his long denied freedom, the hatred he had long felt for the Romans surged through him once more. The memory of the day he had been taken from his home came flooding back to him and he saw once again his father's solemn and painfully understanding face, as he had ridden away, and he heard the unbearable piercing cries of his mother as she wept and begged for him not to leave.

Her tears were shed to no avail.

The Romans had no heart for her. They showed no mercy to the pathetic and pitiable sobs of a heartbroken woman. They felt no kindness even for their closest allies, so why should they spare compassion for the people of a country who had so long fought against them. The inhabitants of Sarmatia were of no worth to Rome, but for a small, even diminutive, number of renowned knights, perhaps as many as one hundred on a good year. If it were not for this small price paid to the Roman Empire, the uncivilized pagan country would have been long before destroyed and reclaimed in the name of Rome.

As Lancelot had rode away from his home on that day, that dreary sunless day, his heart became cold and hardened. No longer did he love life or people as he once had. No longer could he feel the sun on his face or the wind in his dark curls, all was replaced with darkness and chill and a brutal foreboding of the long days to come.

Long ago, long before a time Lancelot either knew or remembered an oath was sworn on the closing of a great battle. The Sarmatian forces had been gravely defeated by the Romans. None were alive at the end of the war but a few legendary warriors. Their courage and valor was known to all Romans and it was said they were undefeatable, and brave beyond any of the fiercest knights known to man or legend. Seeing their value, the Romans decided to spare their lives on the sole account that they would join the Roman military and serve as knights. Though being as ruthless as they were, one lifetime of servitude was not a high enough price to spare the lives of such a foe. In addition to their own lives, it was ordered that the next generation of sons would also enlist into Roman service, and their sons as well, and the sons who followed, and all generations of Sarmatian Knights until the Roman Empire fell or was over taken. Seeing they had no choice, the Sarmatians swore an oath that day binding themselves and their sons to a grave fate, a fate which many after would have chosen second to death, a fate so cold that none who endure it wish it even upon their vilest foes. Lancelot was of that line of men and long he dreaded the day the accursed oath would find him. But it did. And as he rode from his home that bleak and hopeless day, he cursed his fathers of old.

Fifteen long years had passed since that unspeakable day and the time had come for him to be set free. The carriage he watched approach held within the Roman Bishop Jarmanius of Rome, who had come to deliver the discharge papers that would enable himself and his fellow knights to return home to their own country.

Upon their steeds standing beside Lancelot were the rest of the Sarmatian knights. Their number was only six by then, but on the day of their arrival they had been a much greater company of fifty-three. The outlandish and ridiculous demands lain upon them by the Romans far away from the harm and fear the knights faced daily, had claimed the lives of so many, and now only but a few knights, who were possibly even greater warriors than their forefathers, remained. Brave they were and strong. And their loyalty was only to each other and their commander. They were the only people Lancelot now trusted and loved. They were Tristan, who was keen eyed and eared and took delight in slaying and battle. Bors, who beyond all the others was bold. Dagonet, fearless and strong he was but had a heart that still remained true and loyal. Also there were Galahad and Gawain, valiant and fiercely they fought together and never losing a battle or letting a foe escape their wrath.

Their commander was Artorius or Arthur. Courageous he was beyond all others and his name was known to all. Heroic were the tales that were told of him and his legend knights of Sarmatia in his native Rome. He commanded the Roman outpost in Britain where the Sarmatian Knights were positioned. Joined as one they were by the binding fact that they were all under Roman command. Arthur was hardly above his knights in this matter and was as much under the power of the Bishops and Pope in his home as they. He was bound to the Roman outpost and bound to Roman orders until the long awaited day of freedom came. But unlike his knights, Arthur was of Christian beliefs, while the others were pagans, and believed not the ridiculous words Arthur spoke of his God. He believed in equality and peace more so than his knights, who knew the cruel ways of the world, and though he knew it not, more even than his fellow Romans. Though they did not agree with or understand Arthur as they did each other, they loved him as much as any knight loves his commander and pledged their allegiance only to him. Long did they fight together to protect the land form the vicious Saxons and dark Woads. He loved all his knights beyond any others for to him they were not just servants to the Roman Empire but his friends, whom, he had come to realize, he was devoted to far more than his own Romans.

Most of all, though, he loved Lancelot, for he was passionate and fierce, loyal only to those he loved, and loved only those loyal to him. He took no delight in slaying and great delight in women. He of all the knights was the most bitter and fierce and held the most hatred deep in his heart. He held it too deep almost and nothing could warm the frost it had instilled upon him. Seeing him smile was a rarity except if he was engaged in a fit of drunkenness or conceitedly mocking Bors or one of the other knights. Although more arrogant than any other man to walk the earth, and easily identified by the trade mark smirk constantly etched on his face, Lancelot would follow his commander and best friend into the gravest danger to the farthest ends of the earth. Loyalty was valued higher than gold by Lancelot and once you had won his he would give his life defending you. He and Arthur shared a friendship so strong and so faithful that no bond now exists that could compare to the devotion they had. Lancelot fought by Arthur's side, winning renowned all across the great isle of Britain. Together they were more feared then a host of Woad attackers. Arthur would have given his life for him and Lancelot would have done the same.

"There he is as promised," said Arthur as the Bishop's carriage drew nearer. "The Bishop Jarmanius, here to deliver your discharge papers."

"About time too," said Lancelot not heeding the hatred that had leaked from his heart into his voice. "Fifteen years of risking my life on this useless island is enough."

"Don't worry, Lancelot," said Galahad who was youngest of all the knights. "Soon we will be back in Sarmatia. And this nightmare will be over."

"Yeah," agreed Gawain, "and the first thing I'm going to do is find myself a beautiful young Sarmatian woman."

Bors laughed at this and said, "Beautiful woman. Don't you know why we left in the first place?"

All the knights laughed at this. Even Lancelot cracked a smile.

"So Lancelot what are your plans for when you get home?" asked Gawain.

"Well," smiled Lancelot, whom all had unanimously decided upon their first meeting that he was indeed the best looking of the company, "if this Sarmatian woman really is as beautiful as you say then I will have to come and see for myself that you are not just lying so we are to think better of you. And upon her first sight of me she will beg to run away with me and we will ride off together in to the sunset leaving you lonely and miserable until old age takes you." Though it was only the all too familiar sarcasm of his fellow knight, Gawain found that this was a very believable situation and vowed never to let his woman come in contact with the handsome knight who had all too much charm with women, a gift he had possessed since birth.

The knights laughed all around and Gawain muttered, "If I see you coming I'll kill you myself?"

"You will kill me?" smirked Lancelot. "My good friend, I believe you have forgotten which of us is the better knight. I would have slain you before you had even drawn your sword."

Gawain, knowing that his dear friend and fellow knight meant no word of which he had spoken, gave in and muttered quietly to himself, something that sounded awfully like, "...better knight. I'll show him," and fell victim the laughs that surrounded him.

Arthur, on Lancelot's left side, laughed along with the others but fell silent as he glimpsed something in the trees on their right side. He peered as far in as he could but when he saw nothing he guessed that it was merely an animal of some sort.

"What is it Arthur?" asked Lancelot, catching the concerned look on his face.

"Nothing," he replied. "I just thought I saw something."

"Well look at that!" called Dagonet pointing down toward the Bishop's carriage.

The Knights all glanced down into the small valley and saw that one of the Bishop's guards had fallen from his horse. An arrow stuck in his chest was a most obvious sign that he was slain.

"Woads," said Tristan. And no sooner had he said it then scores of men ran out of the trees and toward the Bishop and his guards. They were the Woads, as they were called by the people who dwelt at Hadrian's Wall. They were painted blue and had many crude symbols drawn across their chests. Each one bore a bow and a long sharp spear and many had long blades drawn and ready to kill. These men were the heathen folk of Merlin, known by many as they dark wizard of the woods. They dwelt north of the great wall since the Romans had claimed the Southern half of the isle of Britain. They were angry about being driven from their land and had waged many a fierce battle against the knights in fruitless attempts to reclaim their land of old.

"Come on, boys," called Bors. "Let's go save his ass. He can't give us our discharge papers if he's dead."

The knights rode forward, Arthur in the lead with Lancelot at his right hand side. Down the hill and over the grassy field to the Bishop's carriage they rode and all the way Bors gave a mighty call as he always did when riding into battle.

There were two dozen Woads battling with the small escort of guards the Bishop had brought along. They were a small number and no match for Arthur and the legendry knights of Sarmatia. They gave great shrieking cries as they saw the knights approach. Many rushed forward to form feeble ranks but with great swings of their swords, the knights swept through them and left the ground littered with their lifeless bodies and spilt blood.

Lancelot dismounted from his horse and drawing one of his long gleaming twin blades form its sheath on his back, glanced around him to determine which of the savages to slay first. He only stood a moment before two of the Woads rushed at him. The first ran forward with a blade held high. He gave a wild shriek as he made to bring it down on top of Lancelot's head but before his stroke feel, Lancelot had pierced his chest with a swift swing of his own sword. The second Woad was armed with a long spear. He thrust it forward but Lancelot ducked the blow and with a mighty swing of his blade slashed the back of his foe with a loud sickening crack.

He glanced around and saw his fellow knights at work slaying the rest of the Woads. The memories of past battles with the savage enemies were fresh in his mind. They were ruthless in battle and fought viciously. Lancelot found himself recalling one of the first times he had done battle with these men. He carried a vivid token from that battle, a long scar that stretched the length of his back, the result of a deadly wound at the hand of a Woad. Arthur had nursed him back to health refusing to let his dear friend fall past the boundaries of life so early in his own. And from that day forth, Lancelot, so young then, cursed those heathen men and fought valiantly to rid the world of their numbers, and swore to let no Woad to get passed his blades untouched.

He ran forward with new valor and threw down two more of the savages. Many of them began to retreat back into the trees but several of the boldest ones stayed behind and refused to flee. One particularly large Woad remained and stood searching for a worthy opponent. His eyes glimpsed Lancelot and he rushed forward, a great cry escaping his lips as he made to do battle with the greatest knight of Arthur.

He made to slash Lancelot but their blades met and the sound of metal upon metal rang loudly in their ears. Lancelot battled with this Woad, who even he had to admit possessed skill. They matched each other swing for swing until Lancelot, tiring of their battle, for he compared it with child's play, dealt him with a mighty blow across his forearm. The Woad shrieked in agony and just as Lancelot was about to deal a final blow, a second Woad came up behind him and with a great slash brought his own blade down upon Lancelot's shoulder.

Lancelot felt the blade rip through his thick armor as if it were but a slice of bread and cut painfully through his soft flesh. He felt warm blood gush from the wound and gave a stiff cry in pain as he felt his balance leave him, fell back, and landed on the shoulder that had been slashed. He cried out again as his shoulder hit the ground and the force of the blow sent his sword flying from his grasp. His blood began to stain the grass and a searing pain shot through his body. But no matter how much pain the pompous knight felt it did not compare to the blow his pride had suffered.

The Woad, now standing over him a gleam of victory in his eye, laughed cruelly. His bow pointed at Lancelot's chest was loaded with an arrow aimed directly for his heart. The Woad cackled ever louder as Lancelot made a feeble attempt to retrieve his sword which was now lying three feet away from his outstretched hand.

Knowing that he had no chance of escape, a hasty plan began to form in Lancelot's head.

The Woad's grip loosened on the bow string and he said in a low cruel voice, "Goodbye Great Knight, slayer of my people."

But Lancelot was ready. He reached back with his unhurt arm and retrieved his second gleaming sword. Almost as trademark as his devious grin were Lancelot's twin blades, with which he fought fiercely and ruthlessly. He wretched the blade out from beneath himself and with a great upward stab aimed his sword for the heart of his enemy.

He struck the Woad in the stomach and blood began to flow steadily from the place in which it entered. Lancelot wrenched his blade free, now stained with the blood of his foe and watched as he fell to the ground. The Woad landed with a thud and Lancelot noticed that from his back stuck an arrow exact in likeness to those which he used. He realized someone had slain the Woad before his stroke fell, but who it was Lancelot did not know.

He looked up expecting to see Arthur or one of the other Sarmatians but instead he saw a different knight. He was tall and hooded so Lancelot could not see his face. The knight held out his hand to Lancelot, but with a scowl he refused the offer and got to his feet by himself, for his pride had been damaged enough that day.

His shoulder throbbed painfully as he went to retrieve his stray sword but when he glanced at the place it had been seconds before, he saw it had gone. Lancelot scanned the grounds around him and at last his gaze fell upon the knight who had slain the Woad. His sword was clutched in the knight's hand.

Lancelot walked back to where the knight stood and made to grab his sword but stopped as at last his eyes beheld the face of his rescuer. His own expression fell into a look of disbelief for surely it could not be. Lancelot beheld not a knight of stern face but a fair maiden clad as a knight.

Catching the look on his face she threw back her hood and let her long dark hair fall out. She wore an expression of amusement as Lancelot looked at her, a bewildered expression across his own face. She was no ordinary woman, thought. Her beauty passed that of any maiden he had ever beheld whether in Britain, Rome, or Sarmatia. And she was tall and proud. She held herself as if she were a knight of great ranking. Though she had great beauty, she seemed also to possess a silent fierceness about her, something cold and sad, like a new sword that gleamed gold, silver, and magnificent, yet it was hard and cold and stained with the blood of those it had slain.

From her slender waist hung a long sheath encrusted with gold and jewels. And in her hand she held a great gleaming sword that fitted the sheath. Across her back was slung a bow and a quiver full of arrows. She was clad just like he in armor that shined silver with the crest of Sarmatia across her breast and beneath a coat of mail. Also she wore a cloak draped across her shoulders that was white, but not just any white, it was the purest white Lancelot had ever seen, unstained by dirt or grime and untouched by any who were unworthy of touching such a beautiful thing.

"Your sword." Her voice sounded more beautiful than the birds that sang in the early morning but it also held a note that was cold and angry and sad.

Lancelot looked down and realized she was holding his blade out to him. Coming back to himself he took hold of it and said, "Who are you?"

"I am Maelien," she replied, a hint of authority present in her voice.

"And why, Maelien, are you here?" questioned Lancelot his usual tone of arrogance present.

"I have traveled here with the Bishop Jarmanius of Rome," she answered with a tone to match his. "And he has come in search of Arthur and his knights of Sarmatia. I see he has found you."

"If you are from Rome," said Lancelot, "why then do you bare the Sarmatian crest on your armor?"

"I am Sarmatian," she replied in a dignified sort of way. "I am a knight."

"You're a knight?" smirked Lancelot. He looked around him and saw that the battle was now ended. All of the Woads had either fled or were lying upon the field. His fellow knights were walking around making sure those they had wounded were dead and Arthur was conversing with the Bishop beside his carriage. He and the Bishop looked up as Lancelot looked in their direction and they walked over to where he stood.

"Lancelot," Arthur said, "your shoulder. Have you been injured?"

Lancelot looked upon his injured shoulder. There was a great wound there it was still spilling blood, staining the grass below a rich shade of crimson. The cut was deep and wide and all around it was tinged black. In the shock of seeing who his rescuer was Lancelot had forgotten about the blow. "It's nothing," Lancelot replied simply, fighting the urge to wince in pain. "The damn Woad caught me from behind."

"Lancelot," Arthur replied shaking his head at the arrogant knight, "I fear your pride will be the death of you."

"Maelien, I see you have arrived," said the Bishop turning his attention to her. "Do you have anything to report?"

"The Woads, did you call them, have made their way south and east after crossing the wall. I found their camp 2 miles west of here this morning. I arrived just after the battle began. I slew as many as I could," she replied the note of coolness back in her voice.

"Did you say she was Maelien?" questioned Arthur with a sudden look of confused comprehension. "Do you mean the great Sarmatian knight, who is feared throughout Rome? Who has won as much renowned as the greatest heroes of the greatest tales of old? Who every child in Rome knows the name of and whispers with great respect and authority? But I thought... I mean, I imagined you were... "

"Yes," answered Maelien, "It is me that you speak of, though you seem to hold me in greater respect than I deserve."

"You mean she really is a knight?" questioned Lancelot sharply.

"Yes," she replied again. "The oath our forefathers took of old stated that the eldest son of each generation of Sarmatian knights would be enlisted into the Roman military-"

"I think we are aware of the oath," cut in Lancelot.

She paused slightly and glanced coolly in his direction. "_But_ my father had no sons. So I was taken in place of a son for the Romans ordered that the oath be fulfilled lest we wished instead for death. I was taken form my home and trained to fight...to kill. I became a knight. I have long fought in savage battles and been ordered to slay in the name of a country that is not my own. I have endured great perils with no reward. For fifteen long years I have been away from the land that I love and the home that I miss dearly. But now the oath has been fulfilled and my time spent...and maybe, I will again, be able to look upon the vast and beautiful hills of Sarmatia, the only land I call home." All the time she spoke it was with a great bitterness as cold as winter's first chill.

Lancelot looked at her and saw there was a great look of anger mingled with pain on her face. It was a look he knew well, for he wore it long. All the long days he traveled from his home in Sarmatia to the Roman out post in Britain, he had worn that sad look upon his own face, not speaking, not eating, only hating the Romans. A pain grew in him as he made that journey. It darkened his heart and filled him with anger. He became cold and hard. He could see no light or goodness in the world. And the first time Lancelot rode into battle, the first time he was ordered to kill, the anger that he had long felt erupted. He became violent in battle, slaying all in his way, becoming fierce and merciless. Now many years later he still held that pain close as if it were something he longed to be rid of but had lived so long with that he knew not what it was like to live without.

He looked upon Maelien and in her eyes he saw that she had fared the same. She had shared the same cold fate he had to endure. This somehow changed the way he saw her. Though only moments before he had looked upon her in disbelief and now he saw her with some new feeling, though he knew not what it was. Was it compassion or sympathy? No. He knew it could not be for she needed it not. Was it comprehension or understanding of the life she had led? Yes, to some point but it was more. Was it...love? No, it could not be. He could not love someone only by laying eyes on them. It had taken Arthur, even, years to win the love of Lancelot, but somehow this answer just seemed to fit, somehow he could not shake the though from his mind, though he knew it untrue. He tried to think of another answer to the question that plagued his heart but no other seemed to fit.

He looked around and saw that the other knights had gathered around to see who the new comer was. They were all wearing various looks of disbelief as they too stared at her. Lancelot did not blame them for she looked too beautiful and fair to be a knight. You had to look deeper past her exterior to see how brave and strong she was. She _was_ a knight, a great and noble knight.

Beside Lancelot, Galahad stood, the fair knight's words running through his mind. The pain in her voice and eyes stabbed at his heart. He looked upon her. Her great beauty stunned his eyes and everything around her seemed blurred and nonexistent. She spoke not a word, but her voice sounded beautifully in his head. He could not lift his eyes from her face, though it was pained and angry. A feeling filled him that he had only felt before as a boy, young and running free in the home that she had spoken of. That home, that memory, also filled his mind. The dream that someday he would return burned fiercely in his heart, perhaps even more fiercely than it burned it the hearts of the other knights, for he was younger and the memories of his home were still as fresh in his mind as on the day he had left. Looking upon her face, so young yet so old, he was filled with the joy and happiness that he knew only home could bring him.

She drew also Lancelot's gaze again. Her face, indignant, was so full of wisdom and stories that she looked as if she had already walked the Earth for twice the span of a normal man. It was unlined and attractive, though, and Lancelot knew that she could be no older than Galahad, youngest of the knights, whose age was reduced from his own by four years. A cruel and premature knowledge of the world and its problems was a mark that her tales were true and Lancelot felt the unknown feeling grow in his heart.

"Yes," said the Bishop Jarmanius as he pulled his face into a smile that was quite visibly false. "For fifteen long years you have all been of great service to the Roman Empire. But now your time is nearly done." He smiled his horrible fake smile at all of them; their own faces now twisted into looks of great disgust. "Arthur," the Bishop continued, "I have assigned Maelien to your company for the little time they now have left in your command."

At this Arthur nodded and turned to Maelien and said, "It is a great honor to have a knight of such great renowned in my company. Even if it is only for a short while."

She nodded in return and with a look around at the knights surrounding her said, "No it is an honor for me to be part of such a company as this."

"Well, Arthur, Don't you think it best for us to make for Hadrian's Wall in case any of those savages return?" asked the Bishop.

"Yes," agreed Arthur. "Let us make for the Wall. Tristan, ride ahead and tell us what has become of the Woads and the road ahead."

Tristan nodded and rode swiftly off to the north. The rest of the knights mounted their horses and followed the Bishop's carriage across the field and onto the road that led to the city at Hadrian's Wall the great fortress of Britain where Arthur and his knights dwelt.

They rode a little behind the carriage as it rumbled along the worn and bumpy road.

"I don't like this. Why does he want to go back to go back to the wall," said Gawain, as he rode beside Galahad. "Why doesn't he just give us the papers and be done with it."

"It's a Roman thing," said Bors. "They can't wipe their ass without making a great ceremony out of it. You'll see."

"I don't know about that," said Maelien riding up along side Lancelot. "I think the Bishop has a scheme in mind as well. He had me come up here and join your company after fifteen years. Why he did not just free us separately I do not know, but I fear we will soon see his plan in plain."

As she spoke Lancelot looked upon her again. This time, though, her eyes caught his gaze. They were neither brown nor green but seemed to be caught somewhere in between. And they were deep, deep and full of knowledge and stories, as was her face. As Lancelot stared into them he felt as though they could pierce a hole through stone.

"I do not know what the Bishop has to say when we return to the Wall but I do not think he intends to do anything other than give you your release papers. But we cannot be sure," said Arthur. "For now let us just be happy that our time in Britain is nearly done and the freedom we long for is nearly upon us."

They rode northward as the sun began fall from the sky into the west. As it sank it cast a golden glow about the land and everything seemed peaceful and quiet, a deceiving look of the country of Britain. Tristan had returned and said that the fleeing Woads were heading north at great speed and had no plans of attack. The knights had pushed the thoughts of what the Bishop intended from their minds and were now talking joyfully about their home.

When Lancelot was sure that Maelien was deeply occupied in a conversation with Galahad, of which the young knight seemed greatly happy about, he rode up along side his commander. "Arthur," he said in a low voice so as not to be overheard, "You have heard tale of Maelien before. Why then if she is a great Sarmatian knight have you not spoken of her before now and why has she not joined our company sooner?"

Arthur scanned Lancelot as if to read his thoughts and replied, "I do not know. I have only heard brief tales of her deeds and bravery. Many Romans say her name with as much fear and respect as they do mine. They say she is a knight to challenge the great Arthur. She has earned great renowned in Rome and from the stories told she has slipped through the very fingers of death many times. I do not know but from what I have seen today she is more than worthy of being one of our company, for she is courageous and has greater valor than most men will ever possess in their entire lives. She is astonishingly skilled with a blade and bow and slays fiercely but compassionately. Perhaps she is seen as too great a knight to serve on a petty out post such as Britain or maybe it is the opposite and she is seen as just a defenseless woman, but many of great renowned hold her in great respect and say her name as if she is one of great worth. She is a knight though it may be hard to believe. She has earned that title and bares it proudly not unlike yourself, Lancelot. Can you not look at her and see who she is? She is but one of the great knights of Sarmatia, perhaps even greater than the rest. If you are unsure of this look into her eyes, for there her story lies.

Lancelot pondered this as he rode. Even Arthur, who was courageous and powerful beyond any knight, held her in great respect. He knew not why he cared so much about her, never before had he felt this connected and interested in any woman. He was notorious for his charm with woman but never did he want anything more than one night with them. But something about Maelien seemed to touch his heart and made him feel less angry and cold toward the harsh and bitter world. He could not help staring upon her fair face and wishing it was with he that she was conversing with.

But Lancelot was unable to wonder these feelings any longer for Tristan shouted, "The Wall lies ahead."

Ahead it stood darkly silhouetted against the hills beyond. Flags baring both the Roman and Sarmatian symbols waved in the wind and horns sounded in welcome as the knights approached. Long it was indeed, seventy three miles. From the eastern shore of Britain it stretched right across to the western shore. And it had been held long as a lasting defense against the enemies in the north. Never had it been breached while the Sarmatians had held it and the south of the isle remained safe within Roman control.

And there at the Wall there was a city. Not a large city but it was the main Roman settlement in Britain. Here was where Arthur and the knights dwelt. Mostly Romans dwelt there but there were a few Britains also. All around this city there were rich and fertile farmlands and most of the people lived quiet lives as farmers. Also, some Roman soldiers dwelt there to help defend the Wall if ever battle broke out. All the people in this city were under Arthur's rule as he was the commanding officer in charge of this Roman outpost.

As the knights and the Bishop neared the Wall the massive gates were pulled open to let them enter the city. They passed through the great gates and entered a large courtyard that led out onto the main streets of the city. There were many people waiting to greet both the Bishop and the knights and gathered around as they entered the yard. Many children waved as they dismounted from their horses.

As the Bishop stepped out of his carriage there were many cheers and shouts of welcome from the Romans but those who were of British or Sarmatian race fell silent and cheered not, but welcomed the knights, whom they loved dearly, home. When the shouts died down Arthur said to the Bishop, "My quarters have been made ready for you, as you are probably weary."

The Bishop nodded and replied, "Thank you Arthur. All this travel and fighting has tired me." And he left.

All around Lancelot his fellow knights were greeting friends and Bors was occupied with his many children and his lover Vanora. Many people beckoned to Lancelot but he turned and left the courtyard, with a last glance at Maelien, and made for his own quarters, for he had many things to ponder.


	2. chapter 2

Chapter 2

An hour later Lancelot was summoned to the great hall where was held all meetings and mealtimes of the knights. When he arrived he found all of the others already seated around the table. This table, though, was no ordinary table. It was very peculiar indeed. It was large and round and had no head seat. Arthur had it built and said upon its finishing that in order for men to be men they must first all be equal. That was the way he thought. No man is better than another and all shall be equal, a right God had given men from the time of their creation. He fought for equality and freedom, a cause his fellow Romans had long since forgotten.

Lancelot seated himself in his usual spot at Arthur's right side.

"The Bishop has called us," said Arthur, "He wishes now to speak to all of the knights."

"Where then is Maelien?" questioned Lancelot as he glanced around the hall. "Surely he wishes her to be here." But as soon as the question had escaped his lips, the fair woman of question made her entrance much to the pleasure of Lancelot. Shed of her armor and attire of battle, her beauty shone across the room more vividly than it ever could have hidden under the cold shell of a knight. She looked around the great hall, her eyes straying to the great round structure that dominated the room, and she smiled. Clearly she was impressed by the table of Arthur.

Arthur signaled for her to join him and sit on his other side. She nodded and joined the knights already assembled.

"How is your room?" asked Arthur when she was seated. "I did not know you would be joining us but I ordered it to be made ready for you when we arrived."

"It is fine," she replied, "I am very comfortable, thank you."

Arthur smiled and said, "Good. But if you need anything just ask Baras, he will be happy to fetch it for you."

She nodded and fell silent.

Lancelot glanced at her. She was gazing aimlessly around the room taking in her new surroundings. She had a look of tense expectancy on her face. Lancelot guessed that she was still anxious to see just what the Bishop had to say. He like her also suspected that the Bishop had a scheme in mind. He knew Romans well, and knew they took no interest in the knights of Sarmatia unless to lay a task of great measure, of which they loss of life would be at no cost to them or any of Roman blood.

Soon after, Baras, a loyal servant to Arthur and his knights, led the Bishop into the hall. He smiled as he walked in but his face fell as he glanced around the room. Clearly he was displeased.

"A round table?" he questioned disapprovingly as his gaze fell upon Arthur.

"Yes," said Arthur simply. "It gives a sense of equality and unity."

"I see," he smiled again but it was the same fake disapproving smile he had worn earlier that day upon the battlefield. "But do you think that wise, Arthur? To establish such a relationship with those of which are under your command?"

Arthur scanned the Bishop, whom had been a great friend of his father's. "Yes, Bishop Jarmanius, I do think it wise," he replied quite coolly. He had never felt the same bond to the Roman leader as his father had and held little love for the one who condemned his knight's to such vile tasks. "And I advise you not to question my way again."

The Bishop stared a moment at him. A slight wrinkle appeared in his brow as he beheld the great Arthur, a great captain of Rome, loyal to his country and religion, a name held in high honor among the people of his homeland. None in Rome would have dared to threaten him so, he that was great among the great and wise. But glimpsing the hate-filled stares aimed at him from those in the room not of the high blood of Rome, he quickly dropped the furrow in his brow and no further questioned the ridiculous antics of one who had once been held in eminent among those of Christian beliefs. Arthur beckoned him, though with no great enthusiasm, to sit down but he chose to walk around the table as he began to speak. "Fifteen long years you have been in service to the Roman Empire and each of you has done great deeds for Rome. But now at last we come to your final days and-"

"_Days_?" cut in Lancelot coldly. "Surely you mean _day _as I have spent my fifteen promised years and as I have kept to the oath I expect you shall hold to your end."

The Bishop continued as though he had not heard. "The Pope has taken a great interest in you. Your bravery and deeds did not go unnoticed by him, serving with valor, strength, and courage. His highness wishes to extend an offer to you _if_ you have converted to Christianity-"

This time Arthur cut in. "My knights have chosen to keep their own religion, Bishop Jarmanius. I respect that and so shall you." He said it with such finality that the Bishop did not touch on the subject again.

"Well then," he continued stiffly, "a toast to them." He waved then for his servant to pass around goblets, wrought richly of pure gold, to each of knights. He himself filled them with wine that gave off a potent scent that filled the hall and found its way to each corner of the room. He lifted his own goblet and said, "To the knights of Sarmatia, who have long served Rome with daring and gave not into the temptation of cowardice-"

Lancelot snorted rudely then and made no attempt to hide the absurdity he found in the statement.

"I wish you the best," he finished, again not heeding the likes of Lancelot.

Though he spoke words of kindness the note his voice held clearly told them he meant not a word of it and the loss of such decorated slaves to Rome was no such reason for celebration. It was as if he were but a splendid horn, made of beautiful craft and encrusted with only the finest jewels that gleamed brightly in the sun, but upon its ringing erupted only a long note that held no beauty and gave a sound that pained the ears to hear.

He lifted his goblet and the knights all drank with him but half heartedly so.

"Now," he continued sharply as soon as they had all lowered their drinks, "I must speak privately with your commander."

"I keep no secrets from my knights, Bishop," said Arthur. "Say what you must."

"But I would, ah, rather..." he muttered turning his focus solely to Arthur.

Lancelot then stood up, anger over coming his heart. "Come," he said as he raised his goblet again. "Let us leave Roman business, to Romans." He took one last drink from the cup and set it down upon the table with a loud thud that echoed through the hall. He walked swiftly from the room closely followed by Maelien. The others followed their lead and left the room but all except Dagonet took the golden goblets, which were of great worth, with them.

They took refuge in a small tavern outside the hall. It was located in a small courtyard, much smaller than the one they entered when they first reached the city. Along the far end of the pub was a long bar and a man was pouring drinks and giving them to waitresses to serve to the people. There were many people there mostly Britains and Sarmatians. They called out to the knights as they entered.

Lancelot took a seat at a table with Bors and Tristan He watched as Maelien looked unsure where to go but then sat at a table with Dagonet when he waved her over. Something about this seating arrangement bothered him and he wished she had come to sit with him instead.

"Lancelot?" He tore his eyes away from Maelien and looked at Bors and Tristan. They were both looking at him with strange looks on their faces.

"What?" he questioned.

"What do you want to drink?" replied Bors sounding annoyed. "We've asked you three times."

"Yeah," agreed Tristan in the same tone his voice always bore that suggested he cared not. "What are you looking at anyway?"

"Nothing," lied Lancelot.

"Well, what do you want to drink?" Bors asked again.

"Nothing," repeated Lancelot.

"Come on now," said Bors with a laugh, "_you_ don't want nothing to drink? You're usually so drunk by now that you can't even remember your own name, let alone the name of the girl that goes home with you."

When Lancelot finally convinced them he didn't want a drink they began once again to talk about home and their new freedom. Galahad and Gawain soon sat at their table and joined the talk, but Lancelot remained silent through most of this conversation. He was still wondering the words of the Bishop and the nonappearance of their release papers. And his insistence that he speak alone with Arthur was drawing more suspicion to the matter.

Lancelot was not alone in sitting silently through all the conversation around him. Had he been not so deeply occupied with his thoughts, he would have noticed that beside him Galahad had also fallen quiet.

His eyes lay focused solely on the table where Dagonet and Maelien sat. Though time seemed to be passing him by he seemed frozen in that very moment. The young knight watched the graceful movements she made as she talked with Dagonet. Her beauty fascinated him and her voice warmed him. He unlike the other knights did not take to women and charming them only to associate with them for a single night. He, instead, put his heart and efforts into his knightly duties and serving the commander whom he loved more than any woman. So he was altogether confused why this new woman enthralled him so. He watched her long and became lost from the talk around him, giving only a short, "I agree with Gawain," every time he noticed that his name was mentioned. He only vaguely knew what was going on around him and was totally engulfed in her loveliness.

Lancelot, still deep in his own thoughts, was pulled from them at the mention of his own name. Bors, who was quite drunk himself by this time, was speaking loudly and he seemed to be getting a great reaction of laughs and applause from the inhabitants of surrounding tables.

"...yeah and our Lancelot, who has never lost a fight with a Woad, almost got killed by one. He was flat on his back with no sword and one of those savage bastards standing right over him, an arrow pointed straight at his chest."

"How did he get out of that that one?" called a man, who was so engulfed in a fit of drunkenness he fell out of his chair as he spoke.

"He didn't," laughed Bors, "she had to save him!" He pointed at Maelien who looked quite taken aback at the sudden mention of her. Great roaring laughs broke out all around to the displeasure of Lancelot.

He stood up and everyone fell silent. Though the people laughed, they were quite terrified of Lancelot, for they knew he was fierce and strong and the greatest of the knights that Arthur commanded. They were all half frightened of what he would do and half hoping the story would continue. From his belt he drew a long sharp knife and glared around the room until at last his eyes fell upon Bors. He pulled back the knife and with a great swish brought it down hard. It stuck in the table inches from Bors' hand and Lancelot leaned over it and said in a snarling whisper that echoed through the yard for everyone to hear, "That's enough of that story."

Bors' face was etched with a look of disbelieving fear as Lancelot's eyes bored into his own. And once more he spoke in that echoing whisper. "Understand?" And as he spoke the fierceness left his face and his devious smirk replaced it.

The room erupted once more in laughs this time at the look on Bors' face. And he joined in the laughter too once he saw that Lancelot's face had formed into a grin.

Sitting down again Lancelot was glad to see that Maelien had joined in on the laughter.

"So did she really save you," asked Vanora, who as well as being the mother of all Bors' little bastard children was a waitress in the tiny pub.

"No," Lancelot replied firmly, the note of arrogance one again present in his voice.

"Who is she and why is she here then?" she asked curiously.

"She is a knight," replied Lancelot. "She is Sarmatian also. The Bishop has assigned her to our company for the little time we have left. She has served all of her fifteen years in Rome, but now is here. Why, I cannot say."

"It's strange of him to assign her here on the very day you are to be released, isn't it?" she questioned eagerly.

"Yes," agreed Lancelot. "That is exactly what she thought."

More time passed and still Arthur did not come to the courtyard tavern as they expected, nor had he summoned the knights back into the hall. Lancelot began to get suspicious as he wondered what could have kept Arthur. But just as the knights began to voice this fact aloud their commander made his entrance.

"Arthur," called Bors happily, "come, have a drink, and tell us what has become of our discharge papers."

But Arthur looked the opposite of joyful. He wore a look of pained foreboding upon his face that clearly told Lancelot what he feared had come to pass. He walked toward the knights with each step the look of pain increasing.

"What is it Arthur?" asked Dagonet, who above all the knights, except Lancelot maybe, loved Arthur and was loyal to him and his will.

"Have you killed the Bishop?" asked Lancelot, his hatred of the Bishop flowing through him once more, "because that's not a bad thing." He smirked slightly but seeing the look on his friend's face wiped it off quickly.

"Knights," said Arthur, a determined sadness leaking into his voice, "the Bishop has asked for your services once more before he grants you the freedom that is rightfully yours."

At these words a thick silence fell over the courtyard. No one spoke until Galahad, who at the entrance of Arthur had finally torn his eyes from Maelien, broke through the haze and said, "What does he wish of us?"

A fierce battle seemed to be raging behind Arthur's eyes as he debated whether to tell his knights what he must. He wished he would not have to ruin this their night of glory and joy but he knew he must.

"The Bishop wishes us to bring to him a high ranking Roman family," began Arthur. "Mainly he wishes to bring him Allector, who is godson to the Pope and important to the Roman Empire for he himself is in line to become Pope."

"Where is this family?" asked Lancelot fiercely, fearing he knew the answer.

"They live on a large piece of land given to them by the Pope himself. The land is north of here deep in the land inhabited by the Woads and Saxons. They are trapped. They Saxons are about to wage war on Hadrian's Wall and claim all the island of Britain. They have already begun to march south. They will reach the Wall in four days time."

"Four days!" shouted Bors. "We will surely be killed on this journey! And does the Bishop wish us to fight this war for him as well and defend this useless isle longer yet?"

"No," answered Arthur. "He only wants us to rescue the family. After that we will be free to go."

"So what of the war?" asked Gawain. "Surely there are not enough Romans here to defeat thousands of Saxon warriors."

"No," agreed Arthur. "The Bishop does not wish to fight at all. After we return the family to the Wall, he will evacuate the whole of Britain and leave it to the Saxons."

"Leave it to the Saxons?" said Galahad, the bitterness he felt surged through him, for being the youngest of the Sarmatian knights his memories of home and hatred of Rome were fresh in his heart and he longed for freedom. "Then I have risked my life for the last fifteen years to defend this country just so it could be left to the Saxons. We have risked our lives for nothing!"

Arthur looked at the ground. He could not bear to look upon the faces of his knights and see the anger and fear. But with all the strength he could muster he did so.

"Will you come?" He asked the question he had been dreading to ask. "Will you set out for the last time to defend a will not of your own and claim the freedom that is rightfully yours?"

Dagonet stepped forward and said, "Never yet have you led us to death. I am with you."

Tristan stepped out of the shadows, nodded calmly, and before taking another drink of ale said, "As am I."

Arthur's gaze fell upon Galahad and Gawain, who stood right in front of him. Best friends they were just as Arthur and Lancelot. Gawain looked up at his commander's face and said, "I will come." Then he looked at Galahad and said, "Galahad as well." Arthur glanced at Galahad, who nodded, though it angered him to do so...though it angered him to give in to the orders of the Romans. He then threw down the glass he held and walked swiftly from the courtyard without a look back.

Last Arthur looked at Bors. "Will you come?"

Perhaps it was the drunkenness but the only way Bors could think of answering was by shouting. "Yes of course I'm coming!" he roared. "You'd probably all get yourself killed if I didn't!" He took Galahad's lead and smashed the glass in his hand, but remained where he stood.

Arthur could not even bring himself to look upon Lancelot, for he could not condemn such a friend to such a grave fate. Instead of offering him the freedom that was rightfully his, all Arthur could give him was death.

A ringing silence once again hung over the courtyard. Nothing pierced it not even the rustle of the trees in the wind. But then loud and clear yet hardly above a whisper Maelien spoke. "I shall come also." She stepped out of the shadows and everyone's gaze fell upon her.

Bors uttered a short stiff laugh and said coolly, "This is no task for a woman."

"No," she agreed, "it is a task for a Sarmatian knight."

And everyone watched as she too walked proudly from the pub.

Arthur sighed and while everyone watched her go turned and walked quickly from the courtyard also. Lancelot watched him and followed silently behind.

Arthur walked quickly through the streets of the city until at last he took refuge in the stables. The smell of hay reached his nose and the soft swish of the horses' tails broke the silence every few seconds. He stood silent for a moment and then, throwing aside the saddle that he held, spoke loudly into the dim light.

"Oh Merciful God, I have such need of your mercy now," he said. "Not for myself but for my knights. If you get them safely through this task I will offer you any sacrifice you wish even if it be my own life, for then my death will have purpose-"

"Why do you speak to your invisible God and not to me?" questioned Lancelot fiercely, stepping out of the shadows and looking at Arthur. "Why do you have faith in something you cannot see?"

"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot," answered Arthur turning to look at his friend, whom he was right in guessing would follow him. "It gives my life meaning and purpose. And I have faith that if I trust in God and honor his will above my own then I _will_ look upon him in Heaven."

"Ah yes," said Lancelot, his voice now cold and angry. "Your God, your _Heaven_. Well, Arthur, I do not believe in your Heaven, I have lived too long in this Hell. Too long on this earth full of deceit and malice. Too long in this awful life your God says we are blessed to have."

Arthur looked at him, unable to answer to such a statement, so he said nothing.

"Tell me," Lancelot continued, "does your God promise to protect you on this journey? Do you really have faith in this task? Faith enough to get your knights, your friends, who bound their lives to you, through this task and to the freedom your country wrongfully takes from them?"

When Arthur spoke it was in a voice of forced calm. "How many times, Lancelot have we snatched victory out of the very hands of defeat? Out numbered and still we claimed victory? Never yet have we failed to lose a battle."

"Yes, Arthur," snarled Lancelot, "but this is no ordinary battle. These are _Saxons_. They are cruel and vile beyond any other creature on this Earth. They take joy only in misery and death. Violent and devious they are in battle, never stopping until they have claimed victory and all their foes have been slain. They show no mercy. The Bishop does not intend us to come back. He offers us certain death. There is no way we will make it back alive."

"So will you stay here while we all ride out tomorrow," Arthur said, the anger he had been fighting now rising in his own voice. "You will stay here and condemn yourself to a life of imprisonment. You will not fight for the freedom that is rightfully yours? You will give in to the weakness and cowardice of your heart and not fight as I know you to? Do you not love your freedom and home enough to muster the valor to hide your pride and share the fate of your fellow knights and fight one last time, one last time to at last claim what has been taken from you for the last fifteen years?"

Arthur stared at Lancelot. Anger was etched on his face and hatred his breathing heavy. Long had he suffered and it hardened Arthur's heart to have to bring him more pain. "Lancelot," he continued his voice softening, "you are brave beyond any other knight ever under my command. You do not fear certain death, this I know. So ride, ride with me tomorrow for you will return to this Wall alive, even if it costs me my own life."

Lancelot glanced at Arthur. There was a great pain upon his face. But Lancelot spoke once more, in anger. "Arthur, I am going to die in battle. Of that I am certain. But I hope it is a battle of my own choosing. Promise me one thing, though, if it is this which claims my life. Do not bury me in our pitiful little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and throw my ashes to a strong east wind." With that he left the stables without a glace back at the friend he had so long fought beside.

Hours later, long after everyone had gone to get what little sleep they could and the city lay silent as death, Lancelot wandered about, not knowing where his feet were carrying him. He had been unable to sleep lying in his bed. His mind was so full of thoughts and feelings and his shoulder, which had not been tended to yet, was throbbing painfully, so he had decided to take a walk to try to clear his mind. Carelessly he walked into the now empty tavern where he had only mere hours ago heard the grave news of the hopeless journey that awaited him upon the new dawn.

He glanced around the courtyard and found it was not empty as he had first thought. At a small table, half hidden in the shadows, sat Maelien. She looked weary and thoughtful with her head in her hands, but she looked up when Lancelot entered the court.

"I see I am not the only one troubled by the day's events," he said as he sat down opposite her at the table.

"No," she agreed. "I guessed the Bishop Jarmanius had some task to lay upon us but I did not guess he would dare to ask such a task as this."

"We have long served the Romans," said Lancelot. "What the Bishop asks is unjust and ruthless." Lancelot looked at Maelien. In her presence he found it hard to be angry even at the Roman Bishop who had long dictated his life.

"How is your shoulder?" she asked.

He gazed at her and said, "I will live I promise you." Although, he felt as though he may never use his shoulder again. It pained severely every time he made to move it and throbbed intensely even when he lay still. But for his pride he would never admit to feeling the slightest twinge of discomfort.

Maelien could see through his stern face. "May I see it?" she asked suddenly.

Lancelot did not know why she asked such a thing. But catching the look on his face she explained. "I was trained as a healer in Rome and I may be able to ease the pain. But if you would rather suffer..."

Lancelot smirked at her and said, "If you insist."

She walked up behind him and scanned the wound thoroughly. "I can mend it," she said. "Now if you will remove you tunic I will be glad to tend it and bandage it."

With help from Maelien, Lancelot was able to pull his shirt over his head, leaving his exposed skin subject to the cold fall chill. The wind bit at his back and sent a violent shutter through his body, which made his shoulder throb all the more painfully.

Maelien smiled and placed her warm hands on his wounded shoulder. From the spot where her finger tips made contact a warmth began to spread over Lancelot like the ripples in water after a stone has been tossed into a lake. It was an oddly satisfying sensation, the like of which Lancelot had never felt before. His tense muscles relaxed and for some reason he felt as though the sharp pain that had plagued him all day was beginning to fade from his shoulder.

Maelien bathed the wound with a mixture of warm water and a remedy that was stored in her pocket. It smelled strongly, but of what Lancelot did not know. It was a pleasant fragrance that danced around the courtyard, driving the smell of ale and smoke from the old tavern. Lancelot found himself comparing it to the scent of a meadow upon a new dawn, while the dew still clung to the colorful pedals of the flowers and the thin green blades of grass. It was altogether refreshing and wholesome smell that seemed to fill his body with relief and drive away the pain.

After the wound had been cleaned, Maelien wrapped it with a thick bandage to prevent infection and allow it to heal properly. When she had finished, the pain, Lancelot noticed, was no more. Had he not known there was a wound under his bandages he would not have known he was injured at all.

Lancelot watched Maelien's face as she worked. He could have tended the wound himself, in fact he had meant to but, having Maelien heal it seemed to be a much better option.

She was very beautiful, more beautiful than any maiden he had ever held in his gaze. The moonlight cast a warm glow about the small tavern and lit up her face. Her eyes, so cold yet so warm, caught his gaze. It was true, Arthur's words of her. Her eyes held a story, a story so sorrowful that none could bear to read it. They were focused upon his own shoulder as she wrapped the bandage carefully around the wound. He couldn't help wondering the warm feeling that had settled in his heart. It was quite unlike the lust he felt for other women. Never before had he experienced such a feeling as this.

Before helping Lancelot back into his shirt, Maelien fell silent and began to run her fingers down the familiar scars present on his back. His expression fell into a look of remembrance as he felt her fingers cross his body. With each new scar a different memory formed in Lancelot's head. Each memory was filled with pain as he ran through the past fifteen years of his life.

A long slash across his back, a reminder of the first battle he had fought along side Arthur. Young he was then, just a boy, no more than 15 years old. A round scar on his right shoulder was a reminder of the wicked arrows of the Woads. Many pained memories did he have, much too many.

"You bare the true marks of a knight," said Maelien softly. "I too have scares as these. Reminders of a life I wish I could forget."

Lancelot looked upon her fair face. She didn't look knightly now as she did upon their first meeting. She looked like a child, a child who was lost and longing to find peace, to find home. It saddened him to know that she had been forced to live as he had been made to. Looking upon her made him understand more the cruelty and pain that was all the world had to offer.

Maelien removed her fingers from his back, so full of stories, and helped him back into his shirt. Wordlessly she walked around the table and sat down opposite him.

Silence hung in the air for a few moments and Lancelot became lost in thought again. He again pictured the scene hours earlier when Arthur asked his knights if they would join him on their last and most dangerous quest as knights in service to Rome. He remembered Arthur asking all the knights except himself and Maelien. She had announced her coming of her own will.

"Fair Maelien," Lancelot said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her eyes fell upon his face and he continued. "Why do you willing agree to come on such a perilous journey into certain death when none expect you to do so?"

She stared at him and when she answered her voice became cold as ice and fierce once more. "Am I not also a knight?" she questioned. "Have I not the right to fight for the freedom that is wrongfully denied me? If none expect me to come then you know me not, for I have gone on many perilous journeys into hopelessness and from none yet have I never returned. And as for certain death I fear it not."

"What then do you fear?" asked Lancelot, curiously, but his voice also held a note of coolness.

"I fear the death of those whom I love and having to bare the pain of living without them," she replied, sadness drifted over her face but her voice remained strong.

Lancelot did not know what to say to this. But he did not have to reply because Maelien got to her feet then and said still with a note of frost, "I am beginning to feel weary. I believe I am going to get a few hours sleep before dawn. Goodnight, Lancelot." And she walked out of the courtyard for the second time that night and left Lancelot to wonder the things she had said.

Though he knew it not another had been present in the tavern that night. Hidden among the shadows, Galahad had been about to make his entrance when Lancelot had appeared. He watched Maelien as his beloved fellow knight sat down across from her. For a brief moment he would have sworn that a faint smiled flickered across her oh so beautiful face when the handsome knight joined her.

Galahad silently watched as they talked and Maelien tended the wound. And as he watched a feeling began to mount inside of him. The longer he stood the stronger it got until, though he doubted it, he could not fully deny it.

Galahad, who had no devotions but to the knights he loved, and felt especially loyal to Lancelot, who had befriended him upon their very first meeting, was jealous. He could not bear to watch the content grin upon Lancelot's face and see the beautiful smile Maelien flashed him each time their eyes met. He found it hard to feel love for the knight whom he respected so much as he watched him with the woman, who had stirred up such an unexpected but ultimately pleasant emotion inside of him. He watched longer and the envy grew.

He could see that Lancelot thought differently of her than he did other women. There was a respect and intrigue present in his tone as he spoke to her instead of the usual lust and counterfeit charisma he used upon other woman of great loveliness, though none could compare to the magnificence of Maelien's allure. And their topic of conversation was that of which Lancelot would have never spoken to any but Arthur and most certainly not a woman he had come into acquaintance with only mere hours before. But even more prominent was the look on upon his face. For as long as Galahad had known Lancelot, which was the better part of his life, the part of which he could remember best, there had been a cold, even fierce look to the hardened knight. His eyes held no warmth and his love was given only to a select few. But now it looked as though Lancelot had forgotten the hate that had long held his heart captive. He looked upon Maelien as if she were his freedom from the life he hated so. There was something in his eyes that said she had melted some of the frost away and held a place in his heart.

Galahad could not guess, but in his heart he feared he knew. Love he questioned, just as Lancelot himself had earlier in the day. No he concluded. Not yet. Though he knew it could not be far off considering the spark that had settled in his friend's eyes.

He turned from the tavern and left the court as he had earlier. He knew now that the feeling that had awakened in him upon glimpsing the maiden was challenged, and greatly challenged at that. And for the first time in his life he regretted his allegiance to the knight, who, throughout the land, was second only to Arthur.


	3. chapter 3

Chapter 3

Before dawn Lancelot woke. Tired and stiff he lay. The pain that had briefly subsided had returned to his shoulder in full force once more. He felt oddly chilled and clammy and wondered if the Woad blade that wounded him had been coated with a poison, which was a commodity among their warriors.

Long after Maelien had left the court did he too leave and retire to his room. There he lay awake, unable to sleep, wondering the day that had passed and dreading the day to begin on morning's first light. Weariness finally took him and he fell into a restless and troubled sleep. He tossed long and was unable to shake the words of Maelien from his mind. He understood her fear, for he knew it well. Many times did he watch his fellow knights upon the battlefield, mortally wounded and gasping out their last words before life left their bodies. Watching his friends, his brothers, die filled Lancelot with a great pain, greater than any pain a physical wound could create. It was a pain so great that Lancelot wished that he himself had been taken from the cold lonely Earth instead. His dreams were filled with old memories of pain and sorrow and even when he woke he found it hard to shake the chill that had settled in his heart.

Lancelot shook his head and forced the angst from his mind. Slowly and with a great deal of soreness he climbed tenderly from his bed and dressed. He felt oddly dizzy to as he dressed but the sensation soon passed. He peered at his shoulder in a mirror and saw it had swelled as he had tossed in his sleep but the bandaged remained in place. After pulling on his armor, with great difficulty, he left his quarters and headed out to the stables to make sure all was ready with his horse.

The streets in the city were deserted as he wound his way through them to the stables, for the morning sun had not yet even peeked its golden head over the mountains in the east. Breathing the crisp morning air he shook the last of the faintness from himself and let the cool wind refresh him.

Lancelot hoped to meet Maelien, perhaps also tending her steed, but when he arrived only the stable workers were present. He found his horse and looking upon him, remembered the day his father had given the beast to him. His father had said that after death the mightiest and bravest knights returned to life as great stallions. Wild and free he said they ran until captured and tamed and forced to do the work of humans once again. Lancelot thought his beast one of the great knights. Strong he was and swift as the torrent winds of the sea. Lancelot had given him no name leaving him free at least of title if he could not be free of will. Long had this great horse served Lancelot, as he himself had served the Romans. A loyal friend he was and always would be.

Lancelot began to get his horse's saddle ready, and gave the beast both food and drink. He was just about to fasten the saddle onto the horse's back but Tristan then walked in and called to him. He removed the saddle from his steed's back and walked over to where Tristan stood.

"Lancelot, Arthur has summoned us to the hall and has ordered all the horses to be made ready by dawn," he explained.

Lancelot nodded and Tristan passed the message on to the stable workers and they both left.

When they entered the hall Lancelot found that everyone had already assembled around the great table, that held may empty seats of knights, both great and young, who had met premature ends to their lives. Maelien was once again seated on Arthur's left and she glanced coolly in Lancelot direction as he sat down. Lancelot guessed that she, like himself, possessed great pride and by questioning her reasoning behind her agreement to venture forth on a final journey with Arthur and the knights, he had offended her. Of this he was gravely sorry, for he knew her to be great, perhaps even greater than himself. He knew now the cause of the chill of her face. But he caught something in her eye that had not been present before, something that made him doubt the iciness of her air. A slight glimmer that danced and flickered like fire, warm and fierce, appeared as she gazed at him and though her face was cold, her eyes were warm. They held their gaze a moment and when she looked away, the glimmer wavered and was lost in the depths of green and brown.

He seated himself wondering what this might mean. All about the table was a great host of food. His fellow knights were eating the mounds hungrily but he could not bring the food to his own mouth. The sense of dread that hung over the room mixed with the confusion he was feeling and the slight sickness that had not quite evaporated since his waking left him at quite a loss of appetite. He watched the others eat eagerly but with subdued conversation. But looking along the table he noticed that he was not the only one with an appetite that was lost and a look that was lost in thought. Maelien also had not touched any food.

An hour later the knights were mounted upon their steeds. All had been made ready for them while they ate. They had packed lightly bringing only what was to be needed. Only a small number of packages hung from their horses holding few previsions and weaponry. When fully clad in attire of battle, they looked a magnificent host. Their armor gleamed brightly in the sun and the banners of their countries danced merrily in the wind behind them. But on this day no one noticed the splendor of their armor or the impressive steeds which bore them, and no banner they bore to wave admirably behind as they rode through the city streets. A sense of tense anxiety and fear hung over the knights and those seeing them off, heavily. No smile could be seen as all knew what end this journey could hold.

Many children gathered as they knights approached the immense and foreboding northern gate of the city. They waved sadly to those they admired and held in high glory, for they loved they them and wished only to follow their heroic footsteps and lead a life of honor and knightly duties. Many wept held tightly in the arms of their mothers, who also bore not a dry eye. Men stood, somber, and held their faces stern though they too felt love for the knights who had worked long to defend them of the great danger that life in Britain held and let them lead prosperous lives undisturbed by the savage foes of any who dwelt at Hadrian's Wall.

As the gate loomed, gravely, an old woman stepped in from of the knights and threw a single rose, as red as the spilt blood they had faced and would ever face, on to the road in front of them. Hooded and cloaked she was and bent and hobbled a result of log years of life that had passed her by all too quickly. Her face, lined and crease severely, was grim and solemn, as she looked up at the knights.

"May God protect you, for of your graciousness and nobility none other knights possess a quality as great as that of which you possess," she said loudly for all to hear for not a sound rang but the steady thud of hooves on ground.

Arthur halted and stared at the woman. She was but poor and feeble and driven was her gesture by the love she held deep for the knights that had long defended her home. "And may God bless you with peace, kind woman for your deed of great compassion," he said unto her before continuing toward the ever bitter fate that awaited them on the other side of the ominous gate.

Arthur beckoned the company forward after they had said their last farewells and led them at last through the final line of protection of the task ahead. Beyond that gate far in the north laid barren lands. Empty they were and desolate and none dwelt there but the Woads and far far in the north by the frozen seas, the Saxons. The lands they were to tread were perilous and unexpected. None but Arthur truly knew what lay north of the Wall and his knowledge even was limited.

With a last call of parting Arthur led the company swiftly from the gate and city behind. Like gale they rode away, horns blowing in farewell behind them, but soon they fell silent as the knights were lost in the dark land ahead.

Ever northward they rode, the wind blowing in their ears. The country grew hilly and steep after a while and Arthur encouraged them to make haste as they navigated their way over the immense region of obstacles and hindrance. Long hours passed and the knights talked little, for it was impossible to hear with the wind drumming deafeningly in their ears. They did not stop, even, to eat, for Arthur ordered that they could not be delayed lest they reach the family too late. They had to reach the house of Marius, father of Allector, before the Saxons, which meant they could take no longer than a day and a half or find the house in ruin and all slain.

After many long hours Lancelot guessed that it was nearing noon but he could not tell because the sun was hidden from view in a vast sea of clouds. Dreary was they day, as it had been on his leaving of home, and it further darkened the spirits of the company as they rode ever forward. The land had changed greatly in a short amount of time and it lay now flat and many trees grew all about the land.

As he scanned the new terrain, Tristan suddenly spoke right next to Lancelot. "We draw near to a forest."

Lancelot gazed directly north in the direction which he was pointing and saw a long stretch of darkness. He guessed this was what Tristan spied and as they neared there was no mistaking it. Thickly the trees grew and so dense were their branches that even Tristan, of keen eyes, could hardly penetrate them. Branches intertwined and the ground was so over grown with tree roots and bushes not even the mightiest beast could force a way through.

"We must go through the trees," said Arthur trying to see trough the darkness that loomed ahead. "It would take days to go around. We do not have that much time."

"It is impossible," said Lancelot a chill in his voice. "It will take us longer to cut a way through these trees than it would to go around."

But it was Dagonet who found an answer to this as the rest contemplated the problem at hand. "Look," he called as he pointed at a spot in the trees, "there is a path."

The knights all walked over to where he pointed. Sure enough there lay a small road leading northward though the forest. It was wide enough for two horses to ride abreast, but it, also, was thickly over grown, though not nearly as bad as the rest of the forest was. As they peered through the opening they saw that darkness surrounded the path on all sides and it was nearly impossible to see even a few feet in ahead.

"This is the way we must take," said Arthur needlessly for all the knights knew without words that this way was the dreary path they must tread. "But before we enter you must know that this is the home of Merlin, the dark wizard, and the Woads. In this forest do they dwell and I have heard tale of many traps set along their paths to catch intruders. We must be wary."

Though not completely at unawares to this news, Lancelot still found it quite disturbing, for to tread the paths made be a widely known enemy seemed foolish to him no matter how dire the situation that lay ahead. He felt a heavy foreboding of the entrance of those trees, but he heeded it not. Seeing the consensus of the others, he spoke not of the warning of his heart. He knew too that there must be no delay, for long years in Roman servitude had shown him they held no concern for his life and his death would be of no burden to them, and for mercy, they had none, and he knew that if the knights returned without completion of task they would pay dearly and be condemned not to but fifteen years, but a life time of slavery.

The knights followed Arthur into the trees in single file. The darkness closed in about them as they went forward. They could see only blackness ahead and on either side. It was as though they had stepped into everlasting night, empty of stars and full of baleful noises that would have given any fright of what horrid creature could produce such a sound. To determine which way they were going was useless but the path did not turn and they guessed well they were still heading straight northward, though nothing could be perceived for certain under the shadow of the those trees. Arthur would not dare light a torch. He was afraid it would attract the Woads and delay the knights even further, so instead in front walked Tristan, Arthur at his side. Although Tristan could see no further than the rest in these woods, he was still keen of ear and together he and Arthur navigated the way sightlessly though the deep overgrowth and dark.

When the knights had entered the trees, a sudden chill had come over them, but now, as the woods deepened on either side, the chill became greater and greater. When they spoke a frosty mist rose out of their mouths and each knight shivered heartily under their thick armor and cloak. None, however, suffered as much as Maelien. Her clothes were of thinner material than the rest, for she had long dwelt in the southern regions of Rome where warm clothes were seldom needed. Violently she shivered, her cloak wrapped tightly about her shoulders, but all the while she wore a constant look of determination as they walked ever further into the bitter cold darkness.

Lancelot walked beside her. Long she shivered without uttering a word. An icy mist rose from her mouth with every sharp breath she took. Lancelot felt an uncharacteristic serge of sympathy every time he looked over and saw her. He took pity upon her once and offered her his own cloak, despite the cold that bit harshly at his near frozen limbs.

She had looked at him as if she thought this question offensive and said, "It is much too cold for me to take it from you. I am fine." All the while she spoke in a voice that shivered along with her body but stayed strong and wavered not. But also Lancelot noticed that the glimmer he had caught in her eye that morning had returned as she walked beside him and glimmered faintly through the blackness and as the darkness thickened around them so did the sympathy and kindness he felt for her.

Though he knew Maelien to be suffering he also became worried about his own wellness. After ridding through the dark woods for only but a few hours the same sick and clamminess he had experienced upon his first waking at the day's beginning had settled once again in him. Nausea plagued him and worsened as they rode sending him into brief periods of dizziness. He felt faint and weak and the freezing temperatures aided him not, only biting his throat with every deep intake of air. While he felt constantly on the verge of vomiting, his lack of food intake that day steadied him and made it possible for him to continue forward without delay or word of his situation to the other knights.

Though many times that day he only just managed to keep himself from slipping from his steed during fleeting periods of lightheadedness, his illness seemed to go unnoticed by all, and being as proud as he was strong, he spoke not a word of it. Instead he suffered silently as did Maelien beside him.

Many hours passed as they rode through those the dark woods and still they seemed to thicken. They had ridden long since entering the forest and seemed to be getting no closer to the far side. As Lancelot had upon his first glimpse of it, the other began to experience the same doubts of this path of the enemy.

"This path is leading us nowhere," proclaimed Lancelot as it neared midnight, fighting the urge to fall from his horse and lay forevermore upon the cold hard earth below him. "We have followed it for hours and still have not gotten through this cursed forest. We are weary and cold. We must turn back."

"We cannot," said Arthur in return He looked in the direction Lancelot's voice had sounded from though he knew he would be unable to glimpse him through the thick darkness that pressed on his eyes. He knew not his friend to ever suggest turning back or retreating, but he had guessed Lancelot's heart and knew the reasoning of the uncharacteristic proposal. "We will never reach the house of Marius in time if we go back."

But Lancelot trembling from the cold and pain of fever, with a look at the shivering maiden beside him, said, "This is folly. We will freeze to death before we see the light of day." Through the darkness none could tell that either knight was shivering, Lancelot half to death, and heard not the quiver in his voice as he spoke.

"Maybe not," said Tristan quietly. "Look."

They all peered in the direction he was pointing. Straight ahead of them a little further down the path they glimpsed light. It was not bright but they knew it was night outside the woods.

"Is it the edge of the forest?" questioned Gawain.

"We cannot know until we see," answered Arthur.

They rode on in silence, creeping soundlessly closer to the light source. They approached with stealth just in case the light was not the sky at all but a Woad fire. Thought it did not flicker as fire did, they were wary.

As they neared, it became clear that it was not fire nor was it the edge of the trees. The light came from a small patch of sky that was visible above a clearing of trees. They entered the clearing and looking upward saw that it was indeed night time. The moon was high and cast an eerie light about them.

"We will stop here for the night," said Arthur. "Here we will be able to know what time it is at least and I fear we must risk a small fire for without heat we surely will freeze to death by morning." And with that he began to delegate tasks among the knights.

As everyone went quickly to work to construct a camp as well as they might in the current conditions, no one noticed Lancelot slide from his horse and crawl tenderly to a near by tree. There he sat, weak, lifeless, and shivering from fever, as his fellow knights moved all around him taking no notice. He watched as the blurred shapes moved across the clearing doing some task or another, but what he could tell not. Their voices had become oddly distorted and he only caught pieces of conversations which his mind was too fuzzy and tired to comprehend.

Darkness was beginning to settle in around him and he felt his head hit the ground as his muscles gave way and he fell over to his left. The last thing he remembered as he gave in to unconsciousness was Maelien's urgent voice as she rushed to his side and cried his name.

An hour later Lancelot felt consciousness return to his body. At first he knew not where he was but the cold bite of the air around him brought back the memories fast. He opened his eyes slowly and found that a warm orange glow now filled the petty clearing and the stifling chill was broken by warm waves of heat, the product of a crackling fire newly erect in the center of the break in trees. Around him the knights were talking quite merrily and consuming a great amount of food for their present circumstances, at an alarming pace as well. Watching this Lancelot was made quite aware of his own hunger by a sharp grumble that erupted from his stomach as Bors took a particularly vast mouthful of chicken.

"Hold up there, Bors." His voice croaked slightly as he spoke but grew sharper as he continued. "If you eat much more that great horse of yours will no longer be able to carry you."

Lancelot pulled himself up from the ground, but found he had not been lying on the ground at all. His head had been resting gently in Maelien's lap and she had been dampening his forehead with a cool cloth and stroking his curls gently. As he looked at her, the expression she wore changed swiftly from surprise and worry to gladness and she said, "You are quick to recover from fever. That Woad blade was poisoned."

Lancelot smiled slightly at her and they locked each other in their gaze briefly. Her face so beautiful drove the last of the cloudiness from his head and warmed him as the fire never could. As he stared at her the question that had entered him mind after their first meeting came back to him. Did he love her? It seemed ridiculous to him that he was brooding over this question so deeply, for hadn't he only met Maelien but the day before? But now his answer was changed. He felt affection for her now, not only the affection that attraction brings, but something much deeper, something that was never present before. He felt as though a new piece of the puzzle of his life was now in place and he felt whole as if Maelien completed him. It was almost as if they were placed together by God Himself, though Lancelot believed not in Him. The ice that had long held his heart captive was beginning to melt and he was warm for the first time in fifteen years.

Suddenly, he was made quite aware of the eyes of all the others focused on them. Maelien seemed to notice as well, for then they both torn their eyes away and focused on the others.

Lancelot joined the circle around the fire seating himself next to Arthur, who suppressed a smile as his friend sat down. He knew he had guess rightly as to his friend's feelings of the newcomer and knew that for the first time, Lancelot, was falling in love. Arthur could see it in his face and most clearly his eyes and it could not have been clearer had he screamed it aloud to the whole of Britain. His smile, which helped him achieve a beauty that Arthur could have never accomplished himself, once a rarity, reserved only for those he held dearest, was ever etched on the fair face of Lancelot. Never had Arthur known any to be so obvious of their feelings without speaking a word. He knew now that the boy who had proven himself to be great, many times before, the boy who had captured his heart, was indeed now a man.

As Lancelot joined the eating he was informed of the events of the last hour colorfully recounted by Bors, who had a great love of mocking tales. Lancelot was able to discern the truth from the pitiful lies that Bors had added, such as Maelien sending him on a dangerous journey to retrieve a precious plant so as to concoct a medicine that would magically heal any ailment. He perceived that after his loss of consciousness Maelien had rushed to his aid and discovered that he had been taken with fever. "The stubborn idiot," she had proclaimed upon her discovery, for she knew then that he had long been plagued by it and spoken not. "Arthur is right about you. Your pride will be the end of you and you will deserve it for your stupidity." Swiftly she had tended to him and given him medicine for if she did not hurry Lancelot could be facing death. She knew she must draw the poison from his wound lest he wake never again. He had coughed and spluttered on the medicine she gave him, but gently she coaxed enough of the liquid down his throat to suffice. She wrapped him gently in a blanket and prepared water with the same solution as the night before and bathed his wound as the fragrant scent danced through the clearing driving the chill from each of the knights. When the wound had been bandaged again she tenderly placed his head in her lap and began to soothe him by cooling his face until the fever was broken and Lancelot awake again.

Galahad had watched her work, silently. He watched her face. It held worry, great worry. She moved and spoke calmly but Galahad knew she was desperate inside. He knew his fear was indeed coming true. He could see it not only in Lancelot's eyes but also Maelien's. Love was beginning to settle over them and would soon bind them to each other. He could see too that it was no ordinary love. It was a love of a great power, more powerful perhaps even that the love he held for his home. It would join them together for eternity; even death could not break it. He knew that as she worked, Maelien was panicking inside. Her eyes could not contain her feelings for the man who lay unconscious at her side. If she lost him, she too, would be lost.

Love, though truly the most amazing emotion known to man, blinds those who fall under its spell. Through it both Maelien and Lancelot were unaware that it had fallen over another. Galahad could feel it and unlike that which warmed Lancelot, it tore at him. Each time he looked upon them, and glimpsed the love that had settle most clearly in their eyes, he was filled with sadness and grief and his heart knew the one he loved, loved another. The joy that Maelien had instilled upon him at first sight had changed now to torture, for he loved her but knew he could never have her. He could never hold her and touch her gently and kiss her soft lips. And knowing this made him bitter. He never knew love to bite the way it was biting at his heart and eating away all the hope and joy that was yet left in his life. The pain he felt was fueled by the jealousy of seeing them together and the happiness they shared was the cause of his misery.

Lancelot, though he tried to hide it, was quite happy that Maelien had been so worried about him and had done all within her power to break the fever and restore him to consciousness and health. Her care was indeed very good and her healing abilities superior to those of any in Britain, for even the greatest of healers would never have been able to break a fever as deep as the one that had beset Lancelot, in such a short amount of time. Lancelot felt the strength grow in him as he ate and the last bit of chill and vertigo left him completely.

The knights were in high spirits as they ate the food that Tristan's hawk had succeeded greatly in gathering. After sending it to find what it may, it returned to the praises of the knights with three wild chickens and a fat rabbit. Together with the limited amount of provisions brought along, they feasted on a respectable meal for the current circumstances. Bors, also, had climbed one of the tall trees surrounding the clearing. He reported happily that from its top he was able to see the edge of the woods and guessed that it would take only but a few hours ride to reach it. As they ate they talked merrily of home and other things, taking particular interest in the tales Maelien told of being a knight in Rome. She, as Lancelot soon found out, was every bit a knight as Arthur had said after their first meeting. She told them of some of the many battles she fought against the savage men that dwelt far east and south of Rome and Sarmatia and against the heathen men of the south. These men were feared through out the world. They were dark of skin and worshiped unheard of Gods and animals and they long fought with Rome over the lands they possessed.

But as they spoke a distant rumble rang through the lands. The talking ceased for a moment and a second rumble rang out.

"Oh no," said Bors looking skyward. "Here we go again." And no sooner had he said it then the clouds overhead broke apart and torrents of water crashed down upon the heads of the unsuspecting knights. "I hate this damn island," he cursed. "The weather is terrible. If it's not snowing, it's raining and if it's not raining, it's hotter than a scorching day in hell."

"And that's just the summer," agreed Gawain.

The rain continued for over an hour drenching the knights and extinguishing their fire. But they were able to restore it for they built a shelter over top of it to block out the water, though it did little to warm or dry them. By the time the water finally trickled to a stop the knights looked utterly woe begotten. They shivered terribly in their sopping clothes and drew closer to the fire in a feeble attempt to dry themselves. As for Lancelot the rain had beat down painfully upon his shoulder causing it to pulse excruciatingly as he sat beside the fire. Though his fever did not return he felt a slight weakness again but knew its cause was most likely exhaustion. He was sure by morning every trace of sickness would have been extinguished from his body.

A sudden weariness fell upon the camp and settled in around them. Lancelot watched as his fellow knights fell, one at a time, into an uneasy sleep all around him. He watched as Bors' eyes finally fluttered and shut for good, leaving only himself and Maelien awake.

She glanced at him from across the fire. It illuminated her face and her eyes pierced through hazy light and gazed into his own. She looked fair and fierce even though her hair was wet and matted and she was pale and shivering from the cold. Lancelot gazed upon her face looking deep into her eyes until her voice brought him back to his own.

"How do you feel?" she questioned.

"Great," he replied, "never better." But as he said it his shoulder gave a particularly violent throb and he winced in pain.

Maelien smiled and said, "Are you sure?" and without waiting for a reply she walked over to where he sat.

He watched her draw near and seat herself in the soggy earth beside him and neither spoke for a few moments. It seemed they did not need words; just sitting so close to each other seemed enough. Lancelot watched the flickering of the dying fire and when he glanced quickly at Maelien, he could see the flames dancing in her eyes.

Finally he spoke to her breaking the stifling silence. "Maelien. You have told me of your fears but what is it that you love?"

She stared at him, considering the question, and answered passionately, "I love the new dawn, a new beginning, knowing that there is no knowing what will come to be... I love holding on to the hope that tomorrow will be better than today and that maybe one day what I wish most will come to be... And what I wish is to be free. For freedom, I love most." She fell quiet and the ringing silence hung again while he contemplated what she said.

"Tell me, Lancelot, what it is that you fear," said Maelien breaking the stillness this time.

"I fear," Lancelot began, "a life of imprisonment. Forced to do the will of others and unable to live for myself... having no worth in a land that is not my own and being condemned to fight for things I do not believe."

Maelien nodded sadly. She wore a look of understanding that told him she feared this also. Never had he confided his fears in anyone before, not even Arthur, for he could not appreciate and know the pain Lancelot had born all his knightly days.

"And what then do you love?" questioned Maelien.

Lancelot looked at her. He his hearth bid him say, "I love only you Maelien," but he seemed unable to find words powerful enough to describe the feelings that she had awoken in him.

Instead he replied sullenly, for he knew the words to describe his life up until that point. The world was full of miserable and depressing words that could be used to describe itself. As he spoke the ice that had shortly evaporated from him rose up once more and the bitterness that had been driven into him by the sorrow filled life he had led, erupted once more like a wound not yet healed, sliced open again. "I love nothing of this world," he said. "Too long have I suffered to have any love for it. This Earth is cold and ruthless. All it has brought me is grief and misery. Why should I have any love for it?"

"You should not." Maelien replied softly. "The world offers no mercy to you or even to the Romans who have rule over you. It is cruel and vile and must seem like punishment to those who have passed beyond its boundaries."

Lancelot looked at her. Her words struck him hard like a slap from a friend but he knew they held truth. They were harsh, but no more so than his own. He knew she had suffered but she seemed to have gained so much more knowledge than he from her sorrows. She understood him and his hatred of the world yet she did not hate it herself. She too though the world a horrid place but why then did she not despise it and the cruelty and slavery she had been forced to live through?

While Lancelot thought she continued softly. "I know the trials you have faced and the despair you have suffered, the life you have lost and the terrors you have been given to replace the life you once loved. I know the world is relentless and disgusting, but not all is bad. Not all has corrupted. Though the light had been hidden from you for so long and you may have forgotten what life with it is like, to feel its warmth on your face, you still have love in your heart. It rarely shows itself but I can see it in you. Passed the fierceness of your eyes and your voice you are but a child. You are lost and wishing to prove yourself to be great in a world among many great men. But your resolve is driven by hatred, not passion, and that is why you see no good in a foul world. You see no hope in a hopeless world. You can see no light through the ever thickening dark. But love there is yet in you. It shows itself only to a select few but it is there, and it will grow if you will let it."

Her eyes bored into his own. Fixed was their gazed upon each other, their faces so close now, Lancelot could feel her warm breath upon his and see to the bottom of the depths in her eyes. Her beauty and insight in to the malicious world engulfed him and at that moment he knew. He knew that the answerer was yes. He could no longer even try to fool himself of the love that had taken hold of his heart and mind. He loved her so much more than any other. Yes he loved Arthur, but such love was so different from that which held him now, he knew he would never again be the same. Their lives were now fused as one and to tear one away from the other would be to tear off and arm or a leg.

He would have kissed her in that moment had she not spoken again.

"Will you let it grow, Lancelot? Will you free yourself from your own prison and set yourself loose from the captivity of hate and despair? Will you free yourself from the pain?"

He placed one hand on her face and felt the smooth complexion of it beneath his rough and calloused hands. He did not speak. He could not. But his heart was screaming the answer. "Yes, yes Maelien! I love you!"

Not a sound escaped his mouth but she understood, for the same love had settled deeply in her heart as well. She had been bitter as well, bitter and fierce to the world around her, unloving and cold. But Lancelot had already done for her what she did for him now. He had freed her of the imprisonment of her own pain. She once thought, that to be free of the Romans would bring back the happiness she had all but forgotten, but now she knew she was wrong. True happiness lay only in love, before which she never knew. But now it held her and soft was its touch quite unlike that of all which she had known before. She loved Lancelot as the fished loved the sea, as the sun loved a new dawn, as the flowers loved the spring. And in that moment she knew she could never be without him again or the pain of the world would consume her again.

Long they sat, unmoving. Lancelot held her fair face in his hands and she brushed his face with her own. Time passed but they heeded it not. There they sat unmoving and embracing the love that had ensnared them into a beautiful trap that would never let loose. Lancelot's eyes were now open, and though he be not yet free of the Romans, the beauty that the world had kept hidden now lay before him, for all the beauty the Earth held could not compare to the fairness of her face and heart.

How long they sat, Lancelot could never remember, but some time later weariness finally took them from reality and lay them in a vast world of dreams filled with the love that had unmasked itself to them and filled their hearts with the joy that they had been robbed of for the past fifteen years.


	4. chapter 4

Alright, sorry it has taken me so long to update but I've been pretty busy lately (guitar recital and practice, choir practice and homework ick!!). But I've been writing as much as I can. The reason the last 3 chapters were added so quick was because I had been writing them since the summer but now I'm just writing as I go so bare with me.

Thanks to everybody who has reviewed the story!!! You guys rock!!! Except for Lizbeth 27!! Janelle you're stupid!!! Just kidding! Sorry everybody inside joke. But yeah I love reading my reviews, thank you so much. Please keep reviewing and even if you think this sucks please tell me!!

This chapter is a little shorter than the rest. I'm sure that's probably a good thing. But yeah I'll stop talking now. I'm sure you don't care about what I have to say anyway, but I really do appreciate your reviews. So thanks, enjoy, and I'll shut up.

Chapter 4

Lancelot was woken by the gentle shakes of Maelien. She was leaning over him and her long soft hair fell across his face. He opened his mouth to speak but she silenced him by placing one of her fingers across his lips and issuing a quiet, "Shh."

He took a second to look at her face and saw she wore a look of urgency and dread. Sitting up, he saw the clearing was now drenched in darkness for their fire had been extinguished and, as he determined by the black sky overhead, it could be no more than a few hours after he had fallen into a deep sleep. Around them he could just barely see the outlines of Arthur and Tristan rousing the other knights. There was a sense of tense anxiety over the clearing as he peered around and instantly he knew something was wrong.

"The Woads are near," said Maelien hurriedly. "We must hurry. Wake the others."

Lancelot quickly jumped to his feet. Looking around he found Bors lying a few feet away. He crouched down and shook him vigorously.

"What the hell do you want?" Bors questioned his eyes barely open.

Lancelot hastily passed on the message Maelien had told him and after he had finally woken up enough to understand he jumped to his feet and said, "Where the hell are the bastards? Let me get a piece of em."

"Quiet," said Arthur on their left. The pair saw all of the others had been roused and were gathered around him listening for any sounds of their savage enemies. Only Dagonet moved, for he was gathering the horses and making ready to leave. "They are near but we can still escape without delay. But we must be wary. We are now in the heart of their woods and they are many. Watch for traps, for they are skilled at defending this territory."

The knights crept toward their steeds soundlessly and followed Arthur through the clearing and onto the path ahead. They rode in complete silence through the darkness for a few minutes. They could hear nothing ahead or behind, not even the snap of a twig beneath a foot or the rustle of leaves as the wind blew through the dark trees overhead.

Lancelot spoke not but strained his ears against the defining silence. Uselessly he stared cautiously in every direction but only glimpsed darkness. Beside him Maelien was also making fruitless attempts to spot their foes through gaps in the trees.

They rode but a few minutes without sign or trace that the enemy was anywhere close at hand. Lancelot could hear only the steady intake of breath from Maelien at his side and those which belonged to the others fainter and further away. The severity of the cold that had plagued them before was now lessened as the new sense of dread increased. None now shivered from cold as they had done the previous march through the wood, but all had become more watchful and a silence hung that seemed altogether more uncomfortable than the freezing chill. Time passed by, but not unlike the night before, Lancelot had no record of it. All he knew was that everything was tense and still and all were waiting for the anticipated but unwanted appearance of the terrible Woads.

Ahead of Lancelot, Tristan stopped suddenly, causing all those behind to do the same. He held up one hand needlessly to silence the company. He turned to face his fellow knights and opened his mouth to speak. But at that second a loud echoing shriek rang through the woods shattering the heavy silence like a window hit with a stone and drowning out all sound from Tristan. It was cold and triumphant and several more cries boomed all about the knights.

"Run!" Arthur ordered loudly. "They are upon us!"

Arrows swished loudly through the air around the knights as Arthur led them through the dark trees. The path had begun to twist violently and it now branched off in several places. Lancelot knew not where he was or where he was going. Every few seconds an arrow would rush past his ear and the cries of their enemies would sound. He glanced at Maelien from time to time to be sure she was still at his side and not struck by and arrow.

Unable to see, Lancelot followed the urgent cries of Arthur and Tristan who led the company. He could not spot any of his fellow comrades save Maelien, who he would not let out of his sight, though he heard the hooves of their steeds beating on the ground like a drum sounding at the dawn of a great battle.

"Stop!" came a sudden particularly loud call from Arthur. "Go back! Back!"

Following his commander's orders Lancelot turned sharply and raced in the opposite direction back into the danger behind.

He now, and Maelien beside him, were at the head of the company. Behind them the pounding of hooves told Lancelot that his fellow knights followed. They raced along the narrow lane unsure of how the others fared and what had prompted the call from Arthur.

Lancelot, urging his horse go faster, snuck a brief look at the woman beside him. Knightly she rode, dignified and proud. Her hair flowing behind her, she led the company swiftly down the crooked and winding path. Lancelot thought that it looked as though all the arrows which came close to her fell dead in their path and touched her not. A product of her intense beauty or trick of his eyes blinded by the dark, he could not tell.

"Look out!" A cry escaped her lips and brought him back to attention. Ahead of them a wall had materialized. The Woads had attached long coils of rope to the ends of their arrows and shot them at two large trees on either side of the path ahead of the knights. This formed a high impassable wall blocking the way further down the path. Undoubtedly this was why Arthur had ordered the knights to turn, Lancelot discerned.

"This way!" shouted Lancelot glimpsing a branch in the path to the left.

"Hurry!" shouted Maelien beside him.

The couple led the company down the twisting course. Branches hung low over the trail and often Lancelot felt them upon his face and wounded shoulder causing a pain he was only dully aware of in his haste to escape the Woads. Beside him Maelien held her shield high above her head in defense to the unseen branches.

Suddenly the darkness that had long encased them was pierced. The arrows that rained down overhead were alit and filled the darkness with bursts of light. The trees around the knights began to catch fire and a loud crackling echoed through the woods along with the ever louder shrieking calls.

Ahead Lancelot could see a new rope wall blocked the knights' path once again. Maelien glimpsed it too and gave a loud yell of warning to the other knights. They turned quickly and began back in the direction they had come from.

They had only managed to go a few feet when Arthur, once again in the lead, halted violently causing all behind him to do so as well.

With all the surrounding trees glowing red Lancelot could see why his friend had stopped suddenly. Their enemies were running down the path toward them, spears in hand and loud piercing calls escaping their throats. They wore looks of great hatred as they rushed at the knights who had slain so many of their people.

"Quickly!" shouted Dagonet just ahead of Lancelot. "This way!"

In their haste to escape the Woads, the knights had passed a division in the path. It was half hidden behind the low hanging branches of the trees. Dagonet raced on to the hidden passage and the others followed. They heard their foes following behind. Quick was their pace and their feet echoed loudly as they hit the hard earth below. The wood was filled with the sound of their pursue. But no matter the pace, their speed could not match that of the great horses which bore the knights. As they dashed down the path, the knights could hear behind the dying sounds of the Woad attackers until the sounds of their chase and voices were lost in the darkness.

When the knights deemed it safe to stop their flight and they could hear no voice either behind or ahead, did Bors open his mouth to speak. "That was a damn close call if I ever-" but what he had to say Lancelot never found out because out of the trees, on all sides, torrents of Woads jumped from the spots where they lay waiting to ambush the knights.

"Dammit!" Bors cursed loudly as spears closed in around them and their enemies drew long sharp blades. More shouts met their ears and the company that had been tracking them joined the ambushers.

Arthur drew his long sword, Excalibur, and beckoned the others to do the same. Lancelot slid his twin blades from their sheath and held them at the ready. Beside him Maelien and the others also armed themselves each with a weapon of choice. An axe for Bors, a mace for Gawain, a long blade with a curve for Tristan, each knight had their own preferred tool of battle.

They uttered not a word as the Woads closed in on them. Lancelot watched the jeering faces of the enemies and the fierceness that battle brought to him filled his heart. He held his blades ready, ready to defend not only himself but the knights around him and the woman at his side. Though he knew them capable, they were always under his watchful eye and he would have given his own life to save any one of them.

The tense air that hung was all too familiar to Lancelot. He looked upon the others and saw but a glimpse of the not quite hidden speck of fear that was present in each knight's eye. All the war and bloodshed the past fifteen years had held, still prepared them not for the dread that battle always instilled. Now, on the edge of a battle so deep in unknown territory, cornered by ruthless enemies, the dread hung strong. Each of the bold knights felt a darkening of their hearts as they knew that not all could possible survive this battle alive. They stood out number by a count of at least four to one, and surrounded so as to have no path of escape.

Lancelot alone stood fearless. No gleam of fear in his eye or tremble of body. Not even a squeak of alarm would escape his lips. He alone held no fear. Of that he had convinced himself to be, to feel, to act. Long days before he had silently vowed never to show fear, not even the tiniest sign that he held fright in his heart. Trained were his eyes to leak no trace of emotion and his body was ever still of sign of anxiety. But in his heart he could not lie. He knew he yet held fear but saw it only as a sign of his weakness and not as the emotion present in all humans which made them indeed human. He strived to rid his heart of that weakness, of that bitter emotion, but yet it lingered. For now, he understood its worth to him. Now upon this brink of battle, he knew he feared not for himself and the pitiful life he led, but cared for the one beside him who possessed his heart and love. He knew now what fear was, for if he lost her and had to endure life without her loveliness and passion, he would be unable to bare the pain of it.

Galahad also held great hatred of fear, for to him it was but an excuse of failure to those of frail heart. But it had ensnared him too as he glanced upon the vicious onslaught of Woad warriors. He trembled not and uttered no sound, yet fear there was in his eyes. As the enemy closed in upon the knights Galahad remembered the first time fear had struck his heart. Cold and sore was its touch and never since that day nigh fifteen years before could he shake that dreadful feel from himself.

His first sight of the Roman hosts from his home far away was what had struck him so with fear. Great they were arranged in formation and uniform but the tidings they bore hid their greatness from view and Galahad had shuddered as they approached. Young he was then and he did not rightly understand the fate that awaited him; he was but a boy of eleven, unable even to wield a sword let alone kill with one. They had torn him from the arms of his weeping mother, and he too wept as he was dragged away. Ride, he was ordered, but ride he would not, he could not. He could not leave that home, so beautiful and warm, with grassy fields and rolling hills, all set against a backdrop of deep blue sky that was dotted lightly with clouds a smoky white. So they had whipped him, hard and long, until his will had weakened and he let himself be carried away from that home so fair.

Lancelot had taken pity upon Galahad. He had tended to the long welts that stretched the length of the young boy's back, the product of the vicious lashes. And long Galahad wept, wept for home, wept for pain, wept for the horror filled future that awaited him. The Romans took to harassing the young knight as they made their journey westward to the isle of Britain and often made him work unendingly until he would faint from weariness. Upon these times Lancelot, young then himself, would aid Galahad and will them not torture him so.

One such time, vividly etched in the mind of Galahad, was when the knights and their escort had reached the far side of the mountains that divided Roman land in two. Galahad, exhausted form a day of riding from dawn until many hours passed sundown and being made to fetch water and wood, both nearly impossible to find in the remote area they were located in, had fallen asleep while he had been made to keep watch over the camp. Upon their finding of the sleeping boy, the Romans began to kick and whip him, exceedingly with much strength. And even as he begged and wept for the mercy of such merciless soldiers, they took no pity on him.

Lancelot, then waking from deep slumber, heard the anguished cries of the young knight and drew his blade. Coming behind one of the cruel men, Lancelot smote him a mighty blow upon the helm and watched as he fell crumpled to the cold earth never waking again. He then drew up the sword of his victim and smote down two more of the enemies. Forever after he fought not with one blade, but two, and long was the sting of Lancelot and his twin blades feared among the Romans. It took five soldiers to restrain him, for the anger that had awoken in him knew no limit and he wished only to avenge the pain of his friend. Lancelot was whipped long for that, but not a single moan of pain escaped his lips, for his strength of will and love of Galahad he would endure all pain.

Galahad looked upon the knight who had such love for him. Disgust filled him at the bitterness of his heart. How could he hold hatred for such a friend, such a friend who had great love for all who were servants to the heartless will of the Romans? Lancelot had suffered greatly for love of him even so long ago when their friendship was newly sewn, and now after all the perils and danger they had faced together he, Galahad, cursed such a friend. He shamefully turned his head away from his comrade for he deemed himself unworthy of such love and alliance.

His gaze fell instead on Maelien. Fear, though expertly hidden, leaked into her face. Love for her filled Galahad's heart and he, as Lancelot, was afraid for her. He had seen her do battle and had seen her might and skill, but still he feared for her. As he stared at her, the biting knowledge that her own love belonged to another smote his heart another blow. Her beauty, so lovely and fierce warmed him but chilled his heart. He knew now why he could condemn such a friend, he knew now why he silently held hate for the friend who loved him so and gave him such loyalty that none other could compare. He knew now that he could not bare the pain of this love much longer lest it should consume him and turn his heart black.

One Woad gave a mighty shriek shattering the taut silence and every enemy blade was pulled from its sheath. Lancelot gripped his own swords tighter and awaited the first blow to be made. The Woads jeered longer and cried fell warning in their crude language. But ever longer did they wait and let not a stroke fall. Then a final shriek erupted from a Woad close behind Lancelot and all blades were raised high, held ready to let the first blow drop.

But it never fell.

Instead, an echoing horn sounded through the trees and a mystified silence, that filled all ears, followed. The Woads' looks of vicious malice changed quickly to looks of perplex disbelief. They were utterly confused by the thunderous note that rang still in their ears. It was a call of retreat, seldom used so deep in their own territory. None would dare to call such a retreat when finally after so many years of bloodshed at the hands of these vile knights, they were held captive and surrounded. None could deny the Woads what they truly wanted: revenge; revenge against the greatest knights in the world, the ones who had taken so much from them. Not yet did they know that their leader had his own plans for these knights.

Lancelot watched the queer behavior of the enemy. Their eyes were wide and focused no longer on himself and the others. They spoke not but seemed to speak silently as though through some magic. Fiercely they glanced around at each other as if making sure that the horn that had sounded was indeed reality.

Then they left. Without word or even glance back at the knights, they retreated into the dark trees surrounding the path.

"What the hell was that about?" questioned Bors with a sigh of relief as he slid from his horse after the rustling of the trees behind the retreating Woads had silenced. His face was flushed and small drops of sweat had begun to form at his brow.

"Yeah," agreed Galahad, also visibly shaken by the sudden attack and they withdrawal of the enemy, "why did they retreat?"

"I do not know," said Arthur scanning the now void trees for any sign of a second attack.

"You don't just think they're gonna let us walk out of here do you?" questioned Bors fiercely. "I mean they're Woads for Gods sake."

"It is almost as if they were ordered to withdraw," Maelien said quietly staring still at the trees now empty of enemies.

"It doesn't look as though they have any more plans of attack," replied Arthur still glancing in every which direction. His voice was much calmer than those belonging to Bors and Galahad, but it still held a subtle note of anxiety.

"Well let us not stand here and find out," said Lancelot fiercely, a hint of sarcasm present. "Let us take it for what it is: a gift. Possibly even from your God, Arthur. It seems he wishes me to return to Hadrian's Wall as much as you."

The knights heeded Lancelot and lingered no longer in that cursed wood. They made haste along the path that they were located on, trusting to it to lead them north out of the boundaries of the trees. They could not risk returning the way they had come for fear of a second onslaught of Woad attackers as the forest was at this point filled with paths that led nowhere but to dead end and trap, for the Woads had build many a road to ensnare their enemies and confine them forever to the dark woods until consumed by hunger and weariness. At a faster pace than the day before did they ride along that path, unstopping until they glimpsed light. And no dim light was it; there was no doubt in any knight that they had indeed reached the edge of the forest of the Woads.

As Lancelot passed finally into the light that his eyes had been long denied, he let loose a deep breath. He felt an overpowering relief at the exit of the dangers behind. But as he stood under the shadow of those trees, he couldn't help but think about the perils that lay ahead. The knights now faced the Saxons, feared by all peoples of the world were they and took delight in death and misery. They hated the Romans above all other for their wealth and superiority in the world and longed only to take the lands that they possessed and defile them, for the took joy in filth and decay.

The lands ahead were flat and to the east, clearly visible and looming, were the great mountains of the isle. They were completely impassable but for a narrow pass known only to few. Arthur knew of this pass only because of the great scouts he had sent thither many years before to find way of crossing the mountains undetected. Lancelot feared that through that pass they would most likely have to treat because the Woads now knew of their presence and would bar the way back through the forest to the south.

The sky above, though bright to the eyes of the knights, was clouded over and dark with rolling clouds, but Arthur discerned that it was but a few hours passed dawn. The air out side the woods was chilled and a strong wind blew.

Lancelot watched as Maelien drew her cloak tight about her. The wind whipped at her long hair and exposed the beauty of her softly carven cheekbones, altogether enhancing the splendor of her face. God she was beautiful, the fairness of which was never seen before upon the earth. The way she moved held a grace and elegance that no woman could match. And the wisdom she possessed could not be hoped to be owned by even the wisest of men. As Lancelot gazed upon her knew she could never be as other woman. She could never take to the womanly duties of washing and cooking and she was far too great even for the duties of a noble and celebrated queen. Forever she had been marked. A knight she was and always would be until life left her body and her lovely features returned to the earth from which they had come.

She looked up and saw the knight that held her heart. A warm smile formed on her face and she beckoned Lancelot to her. He joined her as the other knights hurriedly prepared a meal to suffice.

"I saw you in the woods," she said as he approached. "Do you always keep such a watchful eye upon your fellow knights?"

"I have fought long beside them and though they appear to have great skill, they are meeker than mice and do not posses so much as an ounce of the courage that knighthood requires." He smirked at her but knew she could see through his jest.

"Are you quite sure it is not you who is meek of heart?" She smiled mockingly in return.

"You possess a loose tongue for a woman," he replied to her tease. "As I have heard woman are to be seen much and heard far less."

"Then I believe that you have heard wrong, dear Lancelot, for I have been heard throughout many lands and my name is known to many, as you found upon our first meeting." Her smile was soaked with amusement for the ridicule of him. "I believe that even the great Arthur holds my name high."

"Ah, he does, but he does not know the mockery of your speech," Lancelot said in defense, "for then he may think less of you."

"And then he may not," she smiled. "He may think better of me for being able to irritate the likes of arrogant men such as yourself."

"I believe she is right, Lancelot," said Arthur smiling as he joined the conversation.

"I had quite forgotten you take to the likes of cheek, Arthur," Lancelot replied to his captain.

"If I did not then perhaps I would not be as fond of you as I am, for you too possess much of that haughty quality." Arthur laughed lightly and Maelien too joined in. "Come," he continued, "we must depart soon. Eat what little you may before we go forward again. I fear we will not be met with hospitality at the home of Marius."

They lingered there but a quarter of an hour's time longer. Each knight ate their fill of the hasty meal and then they mounted once again and continued ever farther on their northward quest. The flat lands about, rushed passed on either side. Lancelot hardly took notice of them. Every once and a while a clump of trees would fly passed his eye but the main focus of his vision was the ever ominous mountains ahead.

The looming line of jutting rock wall that lay east of the knight's now bent suddenly to the left. The sudden curve meant the mountains lay not just beside them, but also ahead. Enormous and intimidating they stood, dominating the horizon. The lands all about lay in their shadow. At their head great clouds formed and dumped vast heaps of thick and heavy snow upon them, for winter had already wrapped his frosty grasp about them.

They stopped not again as the morning wore on, for now the urgency of the task lay heavy upon their hearts. They knew without haste there would be no victory, and without victory, there would be no freedom. The Saxons, though on foot, moved swiftly, and it could never be hoped to depend on such a fickle thing as luck when dealing with a foe so evil.

As the sun approached its daily height and noon quickly advanced the knights began to feel anxious and glanced every which way to glimpse but a sight of their destination. But none could see even a trace of a house upon the vast land around them. As the sun climbed even higher the dire need to find the abode grew greater and greater until breaking under the tension, Bors let loose a thunderous call that echoed both in the air around and in the ears of the others.

"Quiet!" ordered Arthur. "We cannot count that the Saxons are not yet near."

"Sorry," Bors apologized quietly, "but where the hell is this place?"

"We should be close," answered Arthur, "but I have never ventured forth there before. I only possess what limited knowledge the Bishop has wished to give me."

"Then your knowledge is greater then you think," Tristan said suddenly.

"What do you mean?" questioned Bors fiercely.

"He means the house lies ahead," Dagonet translated.

"Ay. Straight ahead." Tristan pointed, but at this length none but he could see the manor and its surrounding houses and the groomed fields that lay all about. Nestled it was against the mountains shielded from the dangers that lay beyond their protection. Richly it stood, a high wall concealing much of its splendor and baring out much of its enemies. The small houses, hardly bigger than tiny huts, the homes of the servants and farmers of the manor, had not any such protection from danger, which was critical in such a region as this.

Tristan, looking at this house from afar, thought it unpleasant. It gave him an unsettled feeling that suggested that something about it was not quite right. And he, he who took not to fear and dread, felt a dark foreboding of the house of Marius.


End file.
